I'll say right here and now that I've never really gotten the appeal to Christophe/Kyle. I mean, in the movie, it was Stan's personal space he kept invading. But to each his own, I guess.

--

--

--

When Stan knocked on Kyle's front door after school, he had to stand on his porch for several minutes before Kyle finally opened it.

"Hey, man."

"Kyle... you look like shit," Stan gaped at him, tactful as ever. Kyle managed at half-smirk, looking amused, but he really did look awful. "What's wrong with you?"

"Heh..." Kyle said. "Kissing disease."

"... Oh my God you have MONO? Grab your coat - no, don't move, I'll grab your coat - I'll drive you to the hospital!"

"Stan, Stan!" Kyle said, waving his hands in protest. "Relax. I was kidding. Sort of." He had to stop his explanation to cough into his hand. It sounded mucus-y. Which was both disgusting and distressing. "Porschea apparently had the flu last weekend. That's all. I'm rethinking my 'tune her out' policy, though."

He dissolved into another hacking cough that made Stan wince in sympathy. It was true irony that his best friend was chronically sick, when he himself couldn't stand hospitals or anything remotely related to them.

"Man, you should go back to bed," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning him around, steering him toward the stairs. Then he hesitated and looked at the hand that was gripping his shoulder. "Er. You're not contagious, are you?"

Kyle chuckled dryly. "Only if you french me." Stan frowned at the back of his neck and gave him a gentle shove up the stairs. He grabbed a thermometer from the bathroom, and when he walked into Kyle's room he found him in standing in his boxers, struggling to remove his shirt, which was tangled in his arms above his head. Stan yanked it off for him and frowned at him.

"What are you doing?"

"My clothes were all sweaty," Kyle said defensively. Stan shoved him manually into his bed and very nearly jammed the thermometer down his throat. Kyle made a face at him and talked around it. "Cut out my tongue, why don't you."

"Quiet," Stan said, watching his watch. After exactly four minutes he removed the thermometer and gaped at it.

"102.3!"

"You see?" Kyle said. "It's not so bad."

Stan gave him a distressed look. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

"Stan, c'mon. Porschea didn't die, did she?"

"But-"

"Look, worse comes to worse, we'll just carve Cartman up like a Thanksgiving turkey and take whatever organs we need."

Stan made a face at him. "That's not funny."

Kyle started to laugh, but he had to stop very quickly because it made him start to cough again. At 6:00 Stan made Kyle soup, and at 6:14 Kyle ran to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet bowl.

"It was really good," Kyle tried to tell a morose Stan.

"Sure," Stan said dully.

"Really. I'm sure the toilet enjoyed it."

And then he had to stop talking, because his throat was swelling up and it was getting difficult to talk.

"You don't have to stay, you know," Kyle said Saturday afternoon, once he'd recovered enough to form coherent, yet stuffy, words. "I'm sure there're other things you'd rather being doing this weekend... or people."

"No," Stan said, seated on the edge of his bed. He took the thermometer away from him and checked it, and Kyle rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow. "Anyway, Mole took Kenny off on reconnaissance, or something, so I wouldn't be able to spend the time with him even if I wanted to."

Kyle was silent for a little while, and Stan almost thought he fell asleep again.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What?" Stan asked.

"That a guy who, apparently, very desperately wants to be gay is spending time with your boyfriend."

"Oh," Stan said, looking at his feet. "No, not really. I've been... sort of thinking about breaking up with the Mole, anyway."

Kyle shifted around in his bed until he'd raised his head enough so that he could look at Stan through one eye, at least. "How come?"

"The usual reasons," Stan said shrugging. He let his gaze travel from his socks to Kyle's face. "... And, for a while now, there's sort of been... someone else."

"... Huh," Kyle said, letting his head drop back into his pillow. "Hey, could you go heat up some of the soup? I think I can keep it down now."

Stan frowned as he stood up, left the room, and headed down the stairs. He thought their conversation over carefully while he got the soup out of the refrigerator and reheated it on the stove, and by the time he was heading back up the stairs with a tray, he'd made a decision.

"Oh, excellent," Kyle said with muffled enthusiasm. He made a valiant effort to sit up; Stan pulled his pillow out and rearranged it for him, and then handed Kyle the soup while he leaned against the headboard. Kyle began gratefully downing it. Within moments it was gone and Stan took the bowl for him. He stood there while Kyle slouched back down under his blanket, pulling his pillow down with him.

"Kyle?"

"Mm-hm?" Kyle asked, rearranging the covers more comfortably around himself and getting situated.

"Everyone knows I'm gay."

"Yeah," Kyle said, laughing. "You're loud and proud."

Stan frowned. "My point is, if you invite me to spend the weekend at your house, everyone's going to think we're fucking."

"So why don't we?" Kyle asked drowsily, wrapping his arms around his pillow and burying his face in it.

Stan stared at him. "... Because you're straight."

"Oh, yeah, huh?" Kyle said, and then he dozed off.

--

"Your fever's gone down," Stan said, looking up from the thermometer. "I think you're getting better."

"You know what would make me feel a lot better?" Kyle asked brightly, propped up against his headboard. "A skimpy nurse costume."

"I'm not putting a skirt on for you, jackass," Stan said flatly.

"Fine, if you don't want to be the Naughty Nurse, you can be the Naked Nurse that comes to deliver the injection and-"

"No."

"Selfish asshole," Kyle said, crossing his arms.

"You're definitely feeling better," Stan said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. Kyle was back to his joke-flirting.

"Well, if you're not going to indulge my kinks, I could always use some TV," Kyle suggested.

"I'm not carrying that big-ass TV up the stairs for you, Kyle."

Kyle stretched his arms out toward him. It took Stan a moment of staring dumbly to realize what he wanted.

"I'm not carrying you DOWN the stairs, either!"

"Hmph," Kyle said, letting his arms drop and pouting. The doorbell rang and Stan got up to answer it, glad for the excuse to leave the room. He blinked in surprise when he opened the door.

"Wendy?"

"Hi, Stan," she said with a sigh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I knew you'd be over here. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, taking a step back to allow her entrance. She walked in with her hands in her pocket, and took one slow look around the room before bowing her head and sitting down on the couch. Stan stood by the door until she made a face at him.

"Aren't you going to sit down next to me and ask me what's troubling me?" she demanded.

"Oh, right," Stan said, sitting down. "Um. What's-?"

"Oh, it's awful!" she cried, burying her face in her hands. "I have a crush on Cartman and if that weren't bad enough he's taking Heidi to the dance and, God, I can't lose him to her! Cartman's my best friend! What am I going to do?"

"Beats me," Stan said. She lifted her face and scowled at him.

"God damn it, you're gay! You're supposed to be able to give me relationship advice!"

"Um, sorry?" Stan said.

There was a scuffing of feet, and Kyle appeared at the top of the stares, squinting down at them.

"... Wendy? Thought it was you."

"God, Kyle, you look awful," she said.

"He's getting better," Stan said optimistically.

"Kyle," Wendy said, placing her hands on her hips, "how do you think I should get rid of Heidi?"

"Have you tried killing her?" Kyle asked. "Nothing solves a problem like violence."

"Now there's an idea," Wendy said, rubbing her chin.

"I lied," Stan said, panicking. "He isn't better. He's delirious. Don't listen to him!"

"Relax, Stan, I was just kidding," she said, sweeping a hand through her hair. "Now, on a completely unrelated note, can I borrow your baseball bat?"

--

Heidi worked at the orange smoothie cart in the mall. Wendy stood out in the parking lot and waited for her to finish her shift, the baseball bat leaning against the brick wall next to her.

As she stood there she thought over her situation. Wendy could remember the exact moment she realized she liked Cartman in that way.

She had been blessed with the natural ability to cook. Any food, prepared under her hands, was a delicacy. Her parents were delighted. Her home ec teacher was thrilled. She was thoroughly pissed off. She wanted a talent that would help her become a senator, not a housewife.

Wendy had managed to keep this talent a secret from Cartman for, oh, about half a day. It was very hard to keep a secret from Cartman, after all. When he'd found out he'd dragged her into his kitchen and refused to let her leave until she made him something, so she'd made some mac and cheese just to shut him.

He'd moaned like a whore getting gang-banged while he ate it. "Oh God," he said. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around." He'd paused and considered his next words carefully. "When I take over the world, you can have New Zealand."

"What! I don't want New Zealand."

"Everyone wants New Zealand!"

"No one even knew it existed until Lord of the Rings came out," she'd said in a dismissive tone. "I want Egypt."

"You can't have Egypt! That's where I'm putting the Jews!"

"Egypt or I've never cook for you again," she had said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. Cartman had visibly struggled for a moment, than made a face at her.

"Fine, you cruel, selfish bitch. Have Egypt."

And then she'd just realized it. Sitting there in his kitchen and joking about how they would divide up the world (at least, she had been joking, he'd probably meant every word), him sucking the last of the mac and cheese off his fork, she'd just looked at him and known she was in love with that selfish, horrible boy.

She didn't want Heidi to have him, she thought, reaching out and giving the handle of the bat a squeeze. She didn't want anyone to have him but her. But...

Wendy chewed on her bottom lip as she remembered the smug, almost-happy look on Cartman's face when he'd told her he had a date. Cartman was the only one of the foursome that had never had one - even Kenny, who had repulsed girls in the past with his very open desire to screw them and leave them and now apparently wanted to be gay, had dated his fair share.

Her hand uncurled around the bat with a muffled, frustrated sob, and she pressed them to her face instead. Could she really be so selfish? Could she really destroy this chance for Cartman, her best and - frankly - only friend? The person who'd talked her out of being in trouble with school administrators and the cops more times than she could count? The person who'd told her she could be queen of Egypt, but only if she got her bitch ass back in the kitchen and made him some pie?

Heidi walked through the doors to the mall and breezed right past her, not noticing her at all. Wendy peeked between her fingers at the other girl as she walked to her car and dug through her purse, looking for her keys. Wendy rolled her tongue around her teeth, and then she pushed off of the wall and headed towards her, grabbing the bat as she went.

Heidi had just stuck her key into the lock when Wendy swung the bat, shattering the glass in the back driver-side window. Heidi screamed and jumped back, dropping her keys. She clasped a hand over her heart and gaped at her, then scowled.

"Wendy! What the FUCK are you doing!"

"I was going to deliver some bat justice, but... I can't do that to Eric. He actually likes you, I think. So, just... stay away from the quadruple-stuffed Oreos. The Oreos are ours, bitch."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're going to the back-to-school dance with Eric," Wendy said.

"What does that have to do with anything... oh..." she started to laughed. Wendy scowled at her.

"What's so funny?"

"You think I like that fatass? All us girls had a bet going on who would end up together in the season finale of White Trash, and the girl who lost had to take Cartman to the dance."

Wendy stared at her. "That's... that's why you asked him?"

"God, the evening is going to suck," Heidi said, making a face. "I can't believe I had to turn down Kevin for Cartman. My friends are such bitches for making me stick to the bet."

"You sure are bitches," she growled. "How could you do that to him?"

Heidi made a face at her. "What's the big deal? It's just Cartman."

"Just Cartman," Wendy repeated, staring at her.

Later, she would claim that her hands tightened their grip on the bat all by themselves, and, really, could she be held responsible for involuntary muscle spasms?

--

"Wendy, what the hell! You put Heidi in the hospital? Now she won't be able to go to the dance with me!"

Wendy tried to not look pleased. She just didn't try very hard. Cartman scowled at her.

"Wendy, I am so for seriously! They won't even let me go see her because they said it would be counterproductive to the healing process!"

"Heidi's a whore, Eric," Wendy complained.

"So?" he demanded angrily. "She was my date! God damn it, Wendy, why would you screw me over like this? I thought we were... friends."

Wendy glared at her feet. "Maybe I don't want to be your friend, okay, Eric!"

He looked stunned a moment, and then his face quickly twisted into a sneer, as rage was a much more acceptable emotion than confused hurt. "Well, fine, bitch! Fuck you too! I never liked you anyway!" And then he stormed away.

--

"Hey, man," Kyle said, clapping Stan on the back as he sat down at the lunch table. "Thanks for taking care of me over the weekend."

"Sure," Stan said. He blinked. "Where's your lap trophy - uh, I mean, Porschea?"

"She's waiting for me behind the smoker's bleachers."

"What - like a dog?"

"Dude, let her wait. I just wanted to show my gratitude." He grinned at him. "I'm going to make up for that crappy weekend with a gift. What would you say if I said I was going to take you to see a sweaty testosterone-laden struggle between men in mock-able uniforms?"

Stan stared at him. "... You're going to take me to see some bad gay porn?"

"What? No! A wrestling match!" Kyle dropped the ticket into Stan's hand and clapped him on the back again. "You and me, tomorrow night," he said, and then he swung his legs over the lunch bench and waltzed off to the bleachers.

"Don't you hate wrestling?" Kenny asked casually, sucking the last of his soda through his straw.

"It won't be that bad," Stan mused, looking down at the ticket. Across the quad, the Mole started toward their table.

The Mole was not looking forward to this: telling his boyfriend he'd accidentally killed one of his friends. It seemed like the sort of thing one would withhold sex for. And, really, he'd liked Kenny. He wasn't like Stan's fat friend, who'd killed him when he was eight and never apologized, or Stan's whorish friend, who was trying to steal his boyfriend from him. Death wasn't the sort of thing that fazed the Mole, but he felt a little bad that Kenny had had to go.

When he first dragged him down to the compound, explaining - between blasphemy - how they were going to break in, he'd noticed the poor kid giving him an amused look and demanded what was so funny. Kenny'd grinned and said he wondered why it was always the short ones that were filled with so much rage.

He'd not been amused - he wasn't short, everyone else was just abnormally tall - and had just about written Kenneth off as another of Stan's bitch friends. But Kenny kept on joking with him the entire evening that he'd somehow managed to win him over.

It was when they'd sat outside the door, waiting for the changing of the guards, and Kenny had leaned over to ask him what what the deal with the cigarettes, anyway? ("Oral fixation," and Kenny had cracked up) that a sudden blast of gunfire had ripped his body to shreds. The Mole had hightailed it out of there without the map he'd came for, something he'd caught hell for from his employer.

The Mole ran over the situation, trying to figure out how to break it to Stan. "Hey, bitch, I got your friend killed," probably wouldn't go over to well. Stan was sort of... well, a bitch.

But as he approached Stan's usual lunch table his pace gradually slowed until he came to a dead halt. Sitting there, eating a sandwich as if he hadn't a care in the world, was Kenny McCormick. The Mole blinked several times in rapid succession, that hit himself over the head and looked again. No, that was definitely the same boy he'd left in a very permanent state of dead Saturday night.

The Mole started walking again and came to a stop next to Kenny. "You."

"Oh, hey Mole," Kenny said, looking up. Stan was apparently too fixated with a little piece of paper to notice his boyfriend, but then, the Mole was too fixated on Kenny to notice him.

"You. C'mere," he ordered, grabbing Kenny and dragging him across the quad. He stopped under a more secluded tree, and then he turned to face Kenny and began poking and prodding him.

"What's wrong with you?" Kenny asked. "You smoke some Colombian cigarettes, or something?" he knocked the Mole's jabbing finger away from his chest. "Or - oh, are you pissed because I didn't draw the map for you? Sorry 'bout that."

"Forget about ze map!" the Mole cried, throwing his hands up in complete confusion and exasperation. "You- dead- alive- how?" he said, trying very brokenly to form a sentence.

Kenny arched an eyebrow at him and starched the side of his head, apparently trying to figure out what had set the Mole off this time. "Oh... that's right, you've never seen me die before. I keep forgetting." He cracked a grin. "Woah, I've never had someone freak out this since my first grade teacher. But she was a student teacher. Weak. Like putty in Cartman's hands." He inclined his head curiously. "Why are you freaking out, anyway? It happens."

The Mole just stared at him for a while. What was he supposed to say - "I thought I was the only one"?

Instead he said, "Come over to my house after school; I'll geeve you gay lessons."

"Your house?" Kenny said hesitantly. "I mean... no offense, but when Stan went over there he came back all traumatized. Kyle had to rub his back and make him breathe into a paper bag."

"Stan has a weak stomach," the Mole said. Kenny still looked hesitant and he said, "It wouldn't kill you."

"Don't be so sure. It doesn't take a lot to kill me."

"Do you want the lessons?" the Mole inquired, and Kenny nodded vigorously. "All right," he said, jotting down his address on a slip of paper and handing it to him. "Memorize that, then eat the evidence. Tell no one where you're going."

"You're sort of a freak, aren't you," Kenny asked, amused. "I can appreciate that."

"I'll see you after school, then," he said and turned to go.

"Oh, hold on," Kenny said. "Tomorrow's better; Kyle and Stan are going to some wrestling match."

The Mole frowned at him. "Stan doesn't like wrestling."

"Yeah, but he likes Kyle more than he doesn't like wrestling. Er," he said immediately, remembering this was actually Stan's boyfriend. "I mean. In a super best friends sort of way."

The Mole shrugged one shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

--

TBC